


In my craft and sullen art

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Humor, Intellectual Douchebaggery, M/M, Questionable Lyrics, Young Dysfunction, Young Love, implied Fingon/Maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6231973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Maglor and Finrod, young love is better in theory than practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In my craft and sullen art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassynails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassynails/gifts).



> 0\. For the great ten-thousand-leaves, who is responsible for planting the hot mess of young Maglor/Finrod in my head. ~~As punishment~~ In appreciation of this fact, I created a series of vaguely connected scenes featuring these two lovebirds/disasterprats for her birthday.

Makalaurë laughed softly, a melodic sound that made Findaráto, who was seated between his legs before him, shiver slightly.

“Not quite like that,” said Makalaurë. He put his arms around Findaráto, his chest pressing against Findaráto’s back, and reached around to lay his hands over Findaráto’s on the strings of the harp. “You’re close, but you have a little too much play in your fingers. No, you shouldn’t be rigid, but don’t let them be sloppy either. Hold them against the strings like – like a murmur.” His mouth was very close to Findaráto’s ear, and from his position behind him, he could not see how Findaráto closed his eyes briefly. “Not a whisper, not a shout. Touch the strings like a kiss,” he said, low and intent in Findaráto’s ear. “Like a gentle but firm press of lips against warm skin…”

Findaráto’s fingers grazed the strings even as he leaned imperceptibly back into Makalaurë’s arms.

“Bring your head forward,” said Makalaurë, still watching his fingers. “Don’t lose touch with your instrument.”

Findaráto laughed self-consciously, and tipped his head forward. Makalaurë caught the fall of his golden hair before it could obscure his view of the strings, and tucked it behind Findaráto’s ear. “That’s right.”

As Findaráto started to play, Makalaurë let his hands drop from Findaráto’s forearms, coming to settle somewhere in the region of his hips. After a while, Findaráto felt Makalaurë’s head come to rest on his shoulder and he asked, “Makalaurë?”

“Keep playing,” murmured Makalaurë. “I’m listening.”

Findaráto played on, trying to keep his hands from trembling with happiness, as Makalaurë’s fingers played a phantom tune against his hips.

 

* * *

 

“Like a _kiss_?”

“Hush,” said Findaráto, striking out at Findekáno’s arm. “Keep your voice down Finno, honestly, you are so loud you could challenge the herald of Manwë to a shouting match.”

Findekáno shrugged him off, unfazed. “Like a _kiss_?” he repeated, his voice quieter but his amusement and disgust just as present.

“ ‘Like the press of lips against warm skin’,” Findaráto quoted ardently, and scowled as Findekáno burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry, Ingo, but that is so _ridiculous._ ”

“It is not! It’s poetic.”

“It’s trite.” Findekáno rolled his eyes. “And overwrought, and also just plain silly. Listen, I can play the harp too, and I never have my finger-pads gently tongue the strings or whatever, I just play.”

“Not like he does,” said Findaráto sharply, crossing his arms. “He’s the master. He’s the _best_ , so excuse me if I listen to him over you when it comes to music.”

“He may be the best, but he knows it too well to be any good to anyone, and he likes the sound of his voice overmuch,” said Findekáno. “He’s just showing off for you.”

But rather than dissuading him, this seemed to delight Findaráto. “Do you really think so?” he asked, his face lighting up. “Do you really think he wants me to think well of him?”

Findekáno cast a hopeless look skyward as they made their way to the entry of Findekáno’s house. “ _Yes_ , I think he’s wooing you,” he sighed. “However much I find his techniques overly insufferable, wooing is what he is doing. Of course the great artist wants the prettiest of the Vanyar at his side, hanging on his every word – ”

“I am of the Teleri and Noldor as well,” said Findaráto, tossing his bright head. He followed Findekáno down the hallway to his room. “And you don’t really think I am the prettiest, you are teasing me.”

“Only because Maitimo is the prettiest of any of the three kindreds,” said Findekáno, with the tone of one stating fact. “But you’re a very fine second, given that I hope Makalaurë will not be trying to get his brother on his arm.”

Findaráto perched on the windowsill and dropped his air of elegance for a moment to grin. “Speaking of which, there’s a terrible bawdy ditty about the sons of Fëanáro, have you heard it? You should have seen the colors my father turned when he heard my brother singing it.” Findaráto flicked his hair over his shoulder. “My mother came in just in time to hear Aiko explain that it had been Artanis who taught him the lyrics. You really haven’t heard it? It’s a popular one amongst the fish vendors. _The Seven Princes Bound_ …”

“What? No! How am I so out of touch that I have not heard a bawdy and suggestive song about our cousins? That I did not myself make up, no less! How does it go?”

Findaráto surged up from Findekáno’s windowsill and made for his harp. “I’ll play it if you make no more comments on how Makalaurë teaches technique.”

“Not a peep,” said Findekáno, throwing himself down on the bed, but was unable to stop himself from saying, “But kindly refrain from kissing my strings with too much tongue, it’s unsanitary.”

“Shut up, you lack the soul of a poet.”

“Says the chap about to sing me a crude ditty about our relatives.”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Findaráto cleared his throat and settled the harp in his lap. “Right, it begins: _Closer than kin these sev’n appear, and oh the whispers of ‘Brother Dear’ –_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for meeting me here.” Makalaurë leaned back against the tree trunk, and Findaráto carefully tucked himself against his side, his much longer legs stretched out in the grass alongside Makalaurë’s.

“Of course. You know me, never one to turn down a chance to be outside with the fresh air and growing things.” Findaráto smiled. “If the company’s good, then I can be no happier.”

“You do have such a weak spot for blooming stuff.”

“ ‘Blooming stuff’, as you call it, is as close as I can come to seeing music made visible.”

Makalaurë drew his eyebrows together. “Really? Flowers? What of the lights in the sky over the Calacirya? What of the way rills and eddies combine in a river, skirting banks and sliding in sweeping movements over the rocky bottom? Light and water, those are as close as I can approximate music made visible. Flowers? Too fragile, and dead too soon. A song lingers and endures, it makes its eternal mark like soft water carving a canyon. Meanwhile, a flower withers and fades in a day.”

“But that is part of its beauty! The brilliant, frantic energy of expending its beauty despite its small and limited life! It doesn’t need to take its precious and limited energy to be beautiful, but it creates beauty in the face of mortality anyway. Isn’t it more powerful to see something doomed strive so hard? Doesn’t that move you, stir you, make you think of blinding bursts of inspiration?”

“I don’t deny that the fragility of floral beauty is metaphorically appealing, but I thought we were speaking of music made flesh. You think a field of pansies speaks more to you of music’s power than the eternal waves of the ocean?”

Findaráto opened his mouth, his eyes flashing in frustration. “Can’t you just accept that – No, I will not fight with you about this again.”

Makalaurë shrugged. “Who was fighting? I thought we were having an intellectual debate.”

“Did you send me a lavender scented note to invite me to come  _debate_  you in the most out of the way park in Tirion?”

“I didn’t send you a lavender scented anything on purpose, I just upset some of Mother’s perfume while I was looking for a scrap of paper.”

Findaráto drew in a sharp breath, bit his lip, then pulled himself together. “Fine. I – Fine.” He settled back down, and laid his head against Makalaurë’s breast. Makalaurë winced a little at the thump. Findaráto closed his eyes, counting under his breath, and stillness returned. Soon Makalaurë began to hum, and his hand stroked over Findaráto’s shoulders until they relaxed.

“It is interesting you bring up the ocean,” Findaráto said at last.

“Oh?” Makalaurë leaned his head back against the tree.

Findaráto swallowed. “I was thinking,” he ventured. “I shall be going to the coast soon, with my mother’s family. I often stay there a long while, and I was wondering – ”

“The Teleri have a very fine music academy,” said Makalaurë, winding a lock of Findaráto’s hair around his finger. “I quite enjoyed studying their traditions, though I do not find them as sophisticated as the Noldor.”

“That’s good,” said Findaráto carefully. “So you like the coast, then?”

“What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. I’ve done some good work there.”

“I am glad to hear it. I will be traveling there soon, as I say, and I was wondering if perhaps – if your father would allow it – if you are amenable – if you would like to accompany – ”

“You have to be mindful of the strings of your harp, should you bring it,” said Makalaurë. “The salt air is much more humid, and the strings swell.”

Findaráto sighed. “Do they now?”

“Oh, yes indeed. I can give you some tips for instrument care.”

“Why don’t you just show me yourself?” said Findaráto, throwing caution to the winds and sitting up to look Makalaurë in the face. “Why not help me care for my instrument in person?”

“Pardon?” Makalaurë blinked in surprise as Findaráto suddenly swung himself in Makalaurë’s lap, straddling him and grasping the front of his tunic. “Findaráto, was that meant to be a euphemism?”

“It was meant to be an invitation. Come with me,” breathed Findaráto, bending down so that his lips were within a breath of Makalaurë’s, and his hair fell around them like a curtain, hiding their faces. “Come with me to Alqualondë. We can visit the academy, and blend our compositions with Telerin traditions, and wander the shores together, and play music to the sound of the waves…”

Makalaurë gazed up at him. “Where will I stay?”

“Anywhere,” said Findaráto fervently, bending closer still. “Stay with me in the homes of my kinfolk, or sleep by me on the sands away from everyone, so long as you are at my side – ”

“I’ve never fancied sleeping on the sand. Don’t you think it gets everywhere?”

“A tent, then, and bedrolls, but within hearing of the ocean.”

“The wind gets so strong down there, we’d have to anchor the tent well.”

“Then in my bedchamber at my cousin’s house,” said Findaráto in some exasperation. “Don’t you know what I am asking you, Makalaurë?”

Makalaurë started to answer, then broke off, peering over Findaráto’s shoulder, his brow furrowing in displeasure.

Findaráto caught his chin, trying to make Makalaurë look at him. “What is it?”

“Oh for – Get out of here, Curvo! Stop following me!” Makalaurë’s eyes were fixed on the shadowed trees beyond, his face twisted in an expression of annoyance, and Findaráto glanced over his shoulder as well.

Just barely in sight, a slight figure slipped out of view.

“Was that your younger brother?” asked Findaráto, his curiosity overcoming his frustration.

“Yes.” Makalaurë chewed his lip impatiently. “Curufinwë. He has _such_ odd habits, and he’s taken to trailing me around sometimes, and I cannot figure out his game.”

“Perhaps he simply admires you.” Findaráto put his head to the side and touched Makalaurë’s lips until he stopped chewing them. “You are very admirable.”

“Doubtful. He puts less weight on music than he does on ironwork and the study of metallurgy.” Makalaurë looked even more annoyed. “He has always let me know he finds my pursuits trivial.”

“But surely he has your father’s eye for beauty; everyone says he is like Fëanáro’s shadow.”

“What’s your point?”

“Perhaps he appreciates the beauty of your music, even though he wouldn’t admit it.”

“He admires the beauty of something, but I doubt it is my music,” muttered Makalaurë, and put his arms around Findaráto’s waist. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” sighed Findaráto, and bent down to kiss Makalaurë, surprising a gasp from him.

Beneath the tree, the two figures rapidly stopped paying attention to their surroundings, and did not see that the slight figure had not left, but merely found a deeper shadow.

“Shall we go somewhere more private?” asked Makalaurë at last, breathlessly. His tunic was undone, baring his chest, while Findaráto’s shirt was hanging off one shoulder.

Findaráto’s eyes shone. “Yes. Your room, perhaps?”

Makalaurë winced. “Ahh, I don’t know. I am mid-composition, and I have to arrange my room very particularly when I’m in the midst of a project, for ideal creative flow.”

Findaráto sat back on his heels and hitched his shirt up, holding it closed over his collarbones. “And simply having me in the room would upset the creative process.”

“Well, it might. If we get…up to certain activities, it could create mess and disruption. And I’d hate for my process to be ruined because of – ”

“Because of making love to me.”

“I don’t mean to insult you.” Makalaurë caught Findaráto’s arm and drew him close into a kiss again. Findaráto yielded, but his responding kiss held teeth. “I’d very much like to make love to you.” He ran a finger down Findaráto’s cheek, and Findaráto caught his breath. “You are so beautiful, and I desire you very much. Just…”

“Just not anywhere I can ruin things for you.”

Makalaurë sighed. “You don’t understand.”

“I never do, apparently.” Findaráto rolled off Makalaurë and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around them. They sat silently for a while, and Makalaurë re-did the ties of his tunic.

“I’m trying to think how best to explain it to you.”

Findaráto stared into the shadows. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Makalaurë wasn’t listening. “It is probably my upbringing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I was raised by artists, raised in a household that understood the process and urges of creation. Meanwhile, you were raised by, well,” Makalaurë gestured vaguely.

Findaráto’s golden brows snapped together. “By _what_ , exactly?”

“By courtiers,” said Makalaurë, as if this explained everything. “Or whatever you want to call what they do.”

Findaráto surged to his knees, fists clenched at his sides. “My parents come from as high birth as do yours, and you use their status as an _insult_?”

“Well, what do they _do_ beside be of high birth?” Makalaurë rolled his eyes, amused. “It’s not your fault, Findaráto, that you did not grow up in an environment that fostered as much emphasis on creativity and work as it did on wearing the right clothes.”

“How dare you?” Findaráto was practically glowing with fury, and Makalaurë looked surprised at his rapid transformation.

“I know you have that creative spark, too, Findaráto! I want to nurture it, we just have to get over the hurdle of your upbringing.”

Findaráto leapt to his feet. “And you had the perfect upbringing? You and all your perfect, charming brothers are just the epitome of creative function, are you?”

“My brothers are models of a variety of talents.”

“Well bully for you,” snarled Findaráto, and he turned on his heel, stalking from the clearing. “If your brothers are so damn perfect, you can take them to your bed instead!”

Makalaurë stayed beneath the tree, his tunic mis-laced, looking affronted. “Is that a reference to that horrible song? Low blow, Ingoldo, very ungentlemanly! Ingoldo?”

From the shadowy trees, there came a noise that could almost have been a laugh, but that was lost in the birdsong.

 

* * *

 

“What fresh madness now,” said Maitimo, as Makalaurë fell onto his bed and let out a dramatic groan. “Did you and Findaráto fight again?”

Makalaurë lifted his arm from his face. “Yes. How did you know?”

“You two are always fighting.” Maitimo rolled his eyes. “Honestly, why do you keep trying?”

“He’s quite mad about me, you know.”

“Mad is a good word for it. And you condescend to him, and ignore him, and patronize him, and then wonder why he throws his furious fits.” Maitimo chucked a pillow across the room at his brother. “Getting angry is the only way he knows to get your attention.”

“He has my attention!” Makalaurë sat up and threw the pillow back at Maitimo. “The beautiful, sulky, petulant, gifted creature – ”

“Do you even like him?”

“I admire him very much.”

“That does not actually answer my question.”

“He told me I should bed you, if I cared so much more about my family than about him,” muttered Makalaurë, rolling over to bury his face in the quilt.

Maitimo made a repulsed face. “Valar preserve us if I ever get that desperate. Makalaurë, listen to yourself. You are _terrible_ for each other.”

“We have much in common. We both love beauty and music!”

“That is not enough to erase all the other incompatibilities. Don’t you know that artistic egos rarely combine well?”

“That’s not true, look at mother and fath – bad example. But however we ‘combine’, after we fight…” Makalaurë groaned and began wrapping himself in the coverlet. “I couldn’t _buy_ that kind of inspiration.”

Maitimo grimaced. “Are you speaking of reconciliatory love making?”

“Well. We haven’t actually – not in the way you are assuming. But the chemistry is so _raw_ when we have fought, and then meet again, and cannot keep our hands from each other, even as we curse the other’s name…”

“Goodness, that sounds terribly healthy.”

Makalaurë waved a dismissive hand at him and tucked his arms over the coverlet. “Oh, whatever, I don’t care if you judge me. He’ll come back to me tomorrow’s mingling at the latest, sweet and pliable and repentant, and I will have written him something as a gift, and all will be well again.”

There was a sound outside, and Maitimo cocked his head. “Did you hear that?” The sound came again, and he got up and strode over to the window. “Huh. Well, Makalaurë, you may be half right.”

“What?” Makalaurë sat up. “Is it Findaráto?”

“It is. But he’s not alone.” Maitimo waved uneasily. “Findekáno is with him. They have instruments. Oh, lords and ladies above…”

“He’s going to serenade me?” Makalaurë perked up and joined Maitimo at the window. “How fetching of him.”

“Um…”

_“Closer than kin these sev’n appear…”_

“Oh, Eru.”

Findekáno and Findaráto made it through two verses of _Seven Princes Bound_ , before Findekáno was laughing too hard to continue. Then Findaráto stepped forward, and his voice rose alone, sweet and pure.

_“Golden voice, mighty voice, most princely of prats,_

_Most insuff’rable of all Fëanáro’s brats…”_

“That barely scans,” said Makalaurë, indignant.

_“You speaketh of art,_

_O wielder of harp,_

_With your voice like a fart_

_And your mouth like a carp.”_

“Now that’s just childish,” said Maitimo, laying a conciliatory hand on Makalaurë’s shoulder and trying not to laugh. Makalaurë’s mouth was hanging open in a distinctly carp-like fashion.

_“You condescend and patronize,_

_You ramble and you think it wise._

_But for all your mouth gapes open wide_

_You can’t keep a lover satisfied.”_

Makalaurë made an outraged noise. Next to him, Maitimo was laughing soundlessly and pretending he wasn’t.

_“No more should artists get a pass_

_to act a beast and be an ass._

_So without further ado:_

_Farewell, Káno, I’m leaving you.”_

Findaráto finished with a flourish, and gave a dazzling smile. Findekáno, who was wiping tears from his eyes, blew Maitimo a kiss. Then both of them bowed, and took off into the garden as the dogs in the kennels began to bark.

“You could at least have kept the verse form consistent!” Makalaurë yelled out the window, but Findaráto was long gone. “Very immature,” he said, turning back to the room, where Maitimo was manfully trying to keep himself together. “Fine, let him have his little ditty. But someday he’ll learn that no one successfully wins fights with _songs_.”


End file.
